


i hear leaves drinking rain (i hear rich leaves on top)

by betstupid



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: M/M, Neutral Ending, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One-Sided Attraction, actually very very short, anyway this is my first ao3 post!!!, can be read kind of however you want, i know that’s super vague but you’ll see it as you read it, it just kind of drops off, it’s intentional, just to clarify it’s written weirdly on purpose, kind of, ok im not tooooo good at tagging things but, short and sweet, theres not a lot going on anyway, well its kind of requited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betstupid/pseuds/betstupid
Summary: “‘mac said that i was ignoring him because we never spend time together anymore, bro, and that ‘you always ignore me when i try to talk to you,’ so i escorted him out of my car.’ you tell her, the whole and absolute truth.‘okay,’ she sighs.”short and sweet. dennis alone with his thoughts. for the most part.





	i hear leaves drinking rain (i hear rich leaves on top)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first work on ao3!! yay for me!
> 
> i started working on this in february, but never really got around to making an account and sharing it. i think it’s mostly pretty okay, but some of the verb tenses might be off. let me know!!
> 
> btw — the title is from the poem “the rain” by william henry davies
> 
> hmu on insta @bselkie  
> & tumblr @betstupid

being articulate is a feat in itself. writing eloquently is a learned art, which, in most cases, leads to nothing. just because you learned something and dedicated a portion, no matter how slight or decadent, of your time and effort into an end goal; sometimes (often, moreover) life kicks you in the ass and laughs in your face when you struggle your way back up.

…or something like that. it’s beside the point.

sometimes life has to be kicked astray, to the curb, in the pouring rain, the rain beating down on everything in its sight, the streets a makeshift stream. you know, at least in the interim. 

the rain sets a soft glaze on your brand new (dee loves to remind you that, ‘hey, it’s from 1981, dick’, but who listens to someone whose spine can’t hold them upright anyway?) range rover, and leaves your (perfectly done, in moderation, no blatant or unruly out-of-place) spiked hair matted down, dripping down onto your baby blue t-shirt.

at least mac isn’t here to really see that. not that you care. because you don’t. you really, really don’t. he was being incredibly difficult and wouldn’t just listen, you tell yourself. because he was, you say. he can’t just tell you what to do, try to tell you how to feel, or treat people he has nothing to do with. whatever. you kind of want a cigarette. you know he would have one for you.

mac can find his own way home, you say. if a little dennis is telling you, ‘hey, he’s gonna be there all night,’ you don’t listen. because he brought that upon himself. he should face the repercussions, because he’s the one at fault, clearly. obviously. even dee would know that.

‘you should pick him up,’ she says as you walk through the door, still dripping wet.

damn it, dee.

‘no way,’ you stand your ground, moving to take off your sneakers.

‘obviously i don’t know what happened, but i’m sure it was your fault,’ what a presumptuous bitch.

‘do you take me for an irrational man? clearly i’m in the right.’ you pause. ‘as usual,’ just for good measure. 

‘what happened?’

‘mac said that i was ignoring him because we never spend time together anymore, bro and that you always ignore me when i try to talk to you, so i escorted him out of my car.’ you tell her, the whole and absolute truth.

‘okay,’ she sighs.

so you consider it a done deal. mac can find his own way home. easy fix.  
you sit down on the leather couch and lay back.

dee leaves the room and you hear some shuffling. a groan, heels clicking, and then another click. you think nothing of it.

you start thinking, just a slight bit, when an hour and a half passes and the door creaks through the house. four steps. another two. some murmuring.

an unmistakable ‘bro,’ enters the living room. dee took it upon herself to go outside and look for mac.

okay. you’re in the right. you close your eyes.

“hey, mac,” dennis greets, a lick of sarcasm underlying in his voice.

“you pushed me out of your car.” mac states quite blatantly. as if it’s more of a, ‘you forgot your toothbrush,’ or, ‘your sock is still in my bed.’

“not really.” dennis brushes it off.

“what do you mean, not really? it’s not a thing that you can just be, like, no, bro, that didn’t happen. you pushed me out of your car.”

“it’s not like i didn’t have a reason to.”

“okay dennis, what’s your reason?”

“you were being… absurd,” dennis says.

“because?”

“you said we didn’t hang out or talk or do the stuff we used to do.”

“and that warrants you pushing me out of your car onto the pavement? i mean, the fuck, bro.”

“it’s not like you broke anything” dennis mentions off-handedly. quieter, a bit more subtle.

“i scraped my right arm and dislocated my shoulder.”

“that’s not my fault.” a bite.

“pretty sure it is, bro.” 

more put-together. you don’t like that too much.

“it’s not my fault, at least, that you don’t have any other friends besides me.”

“sorry for giving a shit about you, then.” and then, oh. well.. eh.

“why should you?” dennis pries. 

“because you don’t,” he says. 

too put-together.

“that’s kind of weird.” without a better comeback.

“not as weird as me telling you i care about you when we’re on our way to go to your place, and then whack me instead of saying oh, well, thanks or me too. but okay.”

dennis thinks it makes a surprising amount of sense.

you usually expect less of mac. hm.

so you take a moment to look. he’s still standing. his shitty black polo has one side of the collar ripped off. his seemingly mandatory gelled-back hair is, in some places, kind of stuck together or up, and some is, well, kind of droopy.

not cute, you say to yourself, a bit firmly.

everything else is dripping wet. he’s garnered a small puddle where he’s standing.

you could always get mad at him for getting your house dirty. maybe get mad that he ruined one of his more decent shirts. chastise him for using too much hair gel and looking greasy. get frustrated and shoo him off, like you would, say, a fruitfly. 

his cheeks are a bit flushed from the cold. his nose has a bead of rainwater hanging on the septum. his sad puppy eyes are dark and jaded. uh oh.

“sorry, i guess.” you try, faux nonchalantly.

“that’s it,” he says, subtle disbelief.

“sorry i’m a dick. you should change. you’ll probably get pneumonia, and worse, you’re making a mess.”

“you too.” and he’s not really wrong.  


dennis sighs, rolls his shirt over his head, and drapes it on the recliner parallel him.

he wonders what dee’s doing.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed ;0 id love some feedback
> 
> -b.s.


End file.
